Out in the Rain
by keeptheotherone
Summary: A drabble collection of George and Angelina's developing relationship after the Final Battle.
1. The Best He Could

A/N: This will be a drabble collection composed of my writings for the 2013 HP May Madness on LiveJournal. I gave up about eleven days in because it was taking too much time away from FSWC, which I was writing at the time (a fast writer, I am not). I'll only include the prompts I used.

Prompts: apologies, art/ "come on ... nobody has to know"

Summary: George loses himself in the bottle in the aftermath of Fred's death.

* * *

 _Nobody has to know_.

That's what Angelina had said last night. _Nobody has to know._ She had magicked her way into the flat above the shop, and when George had drunkenly apologized for the state of his sitting room and his growing collection of liquor bottles, she had simply said, "Nobody has to know." As if she knew he didn't want his brothers (or his sister) to know how much he was drinking. As if she knew he didn't want his parents to know he wasn't coping.

As if she accepted he was doing the best he could.

And he was. He drank in the mornings to face the day without Fred. He drank in the evenings to forget Fred wasn't here. He drank at night to fall asleep. The only time he didn't drink was when the shop was open, so George tried to drink enough before work to ensure he maintained a buzz well into the afternoon.

Fred's portrait had been delivered today. They'd had them commissioned two years ago, when they joined the Order. An attempt, along with writing their wills, to show their mother they were serious, that they understood the risks. George tipped the bottle to his mouth and drained it.

They had understood nothing.

The sofa was crowded with dirty dishes, take away boxes, food wrappers, and some empty potion bottles. He shoved this detrius aside, sat down in the newly cleared space, and cracked open another bottle.

Nobody had to know.


	2. Haunted

Prompts: Haunted, hours, hunger. Weekly four times, one time prompt: Four times George made Angelina laugh, and one time he made her cry.

Summary: In the months after the war, Angelina grieves for the living as well as the dead.

* * *

George had a haunted look about him. It had been almost two months since the funeral, and he still looked haunted. More so, even. And that fact haunted Angelina ... his apathy, his quietness, his not-George-ness. Haunted her in the wee hours of the night when she lay in bed thinking about her parents, and Fred, and Professor Lupin, and all the others lost in the war. No, not lost; it was not the dead who were lost in their absence, but the living. If this was living, the sunken eyes and translucent skin, the dull expression and soul-deep hunger for something-someone-that could never be satisfied.

She, Lee or one of the Weasleys were with George every day, but it was getting harder and harder to climb the narrow staircase at the back of the shop knowing she would find a haunted, hungry soul at the top. She knew George was going through the motions; knew he was opening the shop, serving customers, making deposits at Gringotts, but it seemed like every minute in between was spent at the bottom of a bottle. Angelina knew he was grieving, knew that although she was too, she didn't understand. But when Fred died, she never thought she would spend her summer grieving both of the twins. She turned on her side and let the tears fall for the living, rather than the dead.


	3. Shapeshifter

Prompt: Below, bright, before/ "There's a lot of words behind every silence."/ dream sex. And the weekly challenge of time, sort of.

Summary: George tries to determine when he learned to recognize Angelina by scent and shape.

* * *

Angelina was here. George could smell her perfume. No, not perfume. Soap. Sweet, like coconut, but stronger. She didn't turn the lights on, but he recognized her outline in the glow from the street lamps outside. When had he memorized the shape of her figure?

Not at Hogwarts. At Hogwarts she had been Fred's girl, and while George had appreciated her friendship and acknowledged her beauty, some lines weren't meant to be crossed. Last month, maybe? When they had been at the Burrow, and she and Hermione and Fleur and Ginny had celebrated the first warm day by going swimming in their underwear? No, before that; he wasn't supposed to have seen, sheltered as the witches undressed behind the trees, but he had identified her shadow even before he'd seen the flashes of dark skin between the leaves.

She unfastened her dressing gown and let it fall to the floor. Stepping over it, she left her shoes among its folds and crossed to where George rested on the sofa.

Maybe it happened after New Year's. When they had done the shop's inventory together, her on a stool reading off product names and item counts, and him ticking off lines and columns. He had been below her, looking up the line of her body, and had to turn and hide his reaction more than once.

She hadn't said a word, but George understood the words behind her silence as she swung one long leg over his and settled on top of his thighs. He rested his hands on her hips and traced the line he'd been afraid to touch, up the curve of her waist, over the flare of her ribs, and as she leaned forward and placed her hands on either side of his head-

Bright light flooded his vision, and his little brother's voice rang in his ears.

"What are you doing in bed? You've got customers below, mate!"

George preferred the silence, even if it meant dreaming about a woman who would never want him.


	4. Out in the Rain

Prompts: Charm, confession, connection/ "Did you know that no matter what you do, you drive me crazy?"

Summary: Angelina can't pretend any more. George has left her out in the rain.

* * *

Angelina Johnson stood outside the back door to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and pounded furiously, taking out her frustration on the hunk of wood in front of her. She was tempted to blast the thing out of her way with a good _Reducto_ , but she wasn't stupid—George would have this door heavily charmed against intruders. He was supposed to have picked her up and escorted her to her team's end-of-season awards dinner. When he didn't show, she sent her Patronus to remind him, hoping he would meet her at the reception. Now he was leaving her out in the rain.

She turned around, skirting puddles and searching the ground at her feet for a nice-sized stone. Locating one, she took a few steps back and sent it straight through his kitchen window with a satisfying _crash_.

Ginger hair appeared in the opening almost immediately. "What the bloody hell— Angelina."

He sounded defeated and guilty, and Angelina steeled herself against the familiar onslaught of emotion. She was tired of feeling sorry for George, tired of making excuses, tired of convincing herself he didn't mean to be selfish.

Tired of pretending the connection between them went both ways.

"Open the door."

She heard him repair the window with a charm, then his footsteps on the stairs and the slide of the lock.

"I—"

"I don't want to hear it." Angelina brushed past him and went upstairs to his flat. She knew what she would find, knew there was no genuine reason George hadn't showed tonight, but she wanted—no, needed—to see the evidence for herself. Her delusional self that kept insisting she take care of George, whether he appreciated her or not.

Merlin knew he wasn't doing it.

But Angelina was wrong—she hadn't expected this. The dirty dishes and piles of laundry and wine bottles on the end table despite the three hours she'd spent clearing up a few days ago, yes. But not the petite blonde digging a high heel from under the sofa, or the way she smirked at Angelina, or the tears that sprang to her eyes without permission. Numb, she stepped out of the other witch's way without being asked.

" 'Bye, Georgie," the blonde cooed. "Thanks again."

She was everything Angelina wasn't—blonde and delicate and girly and fawning. Angelina was still standing frozen in the doorway when the downstairs door closed and she felt George pass by her. He began collecting rubbish, avoiding her eyes.

"Did you know that ever since I first met you, no matter what you do, you drive me crazy? It used to be funny."

And she walked out, leaving George and his dump of a flat—and her heart—behind.


	5. Dreaming

A/N: OMG, guys, I'm so sorry for all the notifications! There must have been a better way to do this, but sometimes I am not the sharpest knife in the drawer. I rearranged the chapters to follow story time instead of the order of the challenge prompts. This chapter is new content; once it's up, the other chapters that I've previously posted will be added in their new chronological order until we get to the next new chapter, which is number nine in the new line-up. It is also the last new chap, so we'll wrap up this drabble collection next Wednesday. I'm sorry for the confusion!

Today's prompts: Key, kind, kick/ "But dreaming was free." Weekly four times, one time prompt: Four times George made Angelina laugh, and one time he made her cry. Daily kink: drunk sex.

Summary: Angelina can't help helping George, even when it costs her.

* * *

Angelina turned the key in the lock and entered George's flat. It was a mess, as usual: dirty laundry, dirty dishes, dirty worktops, dirty floor. She picked up as much rubbish as she could carry on her way into the tiny kitchen where the bin was located, dumped her armful, and carried the bin back to the door.

Who knew where George was; out getting drunk, probably, since he wasn't getting drunk at home. At least not tonight. She tossed two wine bottles into the bin. She didn't know why she was here. Katie said it was kind. Alicia said she needed a kick in the pants. Even Ginny had made a point of telling Angelina the family didn't expect her to take care of George and he was unlikely to fend for himself as long as she continued to rescue him.

Angelina knew that. She did. But she couldn't just leave him here, in the flat he'd shared with Fred, in the room that still hadn't been touched since Fred died. She shook out the blanket wadded at one end of the sofa, then went in search of a clean pillowcase.

She was dreaming, imagining that cleaning his flat and stocking his cupboards and helping at the shop meant anything to George. Not that the blonde bimbo meant anything, either. She knew that too, that George would have never slept with her—or any of the others, and Angelina didn't delude herself that there weren't others—if he hadn't been drunk.

Not that he made a move on Angelina even when he was drunk.

She forced the pillow into its case with a vigorous shake, swiped some crisp crumbs off the sofa, and stacked the neatly folded blanket and freshly plumped pillow on top of it. She was dreaming all right, but giving up on George would cost her, and dreaming was free.


	6. Forgetting

A/N: In case you missed it, I have rearranged chapters to fit chronological order in story time. Chapter Five was this week's new update.

Prompt: Decision, desperation, drunk/ "Your voice is the song I could listen to all day long."

Summary: George still drinks to forget, but he's not sure what he's trying to forget anymore.

* * *

George had met his mother, sister, and Angelina for dinner at the Leaky Cauldron and ended up waiting on them for over an hour. How it was possible to lose track of time while doing something as mundane as shopping for Quidditch equipment he didn't know, but his recent decision not to be drunk in front of his family had taken a definite hit. Ginny had been so excited about her departure for Holyhead in two weeks that she hadn't noticed, but Mum had given him one long, searching look as he left the bar to join them at a table. She didn't say anything in front of Angelina, but George could read the disappointment in her eyes.

It only made him desperate for another drink, desperate to forget.

Forget how he was disappointing his mother, forget how he was starting to not think about Fred all the time, forget his attraction to Angie. George had sat through dinner and the conversation afterwards, not paying attention to the topic but just listening to the sound of her voice. The rhythm of her words, the lilt of her accent, the melody of her laughter, it all translated to music in his ear. She was beauty and grace and strength, and he didn't deserve her. Which was fine, because he didn't have her.

But oh, how he wanted her.

Wanted to see her smile at the end of the day. Wanted to make her laugh. Wanted to stop hurting her. Wanted to see his dreams pale against the experience of being with her.

For over a year, he had dreamed about Fred. About seeing his body lying in the Great Hall; flying out of Hogwarts with Umbitch screaming below them; playing Quidditch in the orchard; working together at the shop. Countless moments of a life with his twin played over and over in George's mind at night.

And then he had started dreaming about _her_. Her smile, her body, her compassion, her presence. And despite the fact that he could see and talk to Angelina any time he wanted but only had Fred in his dreams, George started hoping he would dream about her. On the good nights, he wasn't drunk. He wasn't sarcastic. On the good nights, he brought her flowers and made her smile, and she melted against him, whispering his name. _George_.

On the bad nights, he dreamed about both of them.

And just as his mind took ordinary events and turned them into perfect memories, it also took innocent encounters and twisted them into passionate trysts. Until George didn't know what was real anymore, couldn't separate fact from nightmare, reality from fantasy.

So he drank to forget. Forget that Fred wasn't here, forget that he was hurting everyone he loved, forget that Angelina might be one of those people.

Because Fred had loved her too, and George couldn't decide if he was desperate to remember that, or to forget it.


	7. Burn

Prompt: Embrace, explode, eyes

Summary: When Angelina causes an accident in the shop, she isn't the only one burned.

* * *

George was working in the back room, mixing a new potion to create additional colors for Weasleys' Wild-Fire Whiz-Bangs. He heard Verity tell Angelina he was in the back and then the sound of her footsteps, but he didn't look up to welcome her. This potion was highly volatile.

"Whew, it is pouring out there," Angelina said. "What are you working on?"

He corked the flask and set it back on the shelf. "Whiz-bangs. Stay over there—no, wait!"

His warning came too late as Angelina took the coat she had just removed and gave it a vigorous shake. Drops of water flew everywhere, and the potion fizzed ominously.

"Duck!" George lunged at her, and they hit the floor hard as the Whiz-Bang potion exploded with a resounding _boom_ , followed by a series of cracks and pops as the Skiving Snackboxes ignited on the shelves above.

Verity appeared even before the noise had stopped. "Mr. Weasley! Mr. Weasley, are you all right?"

"Don't Vanish them!"

"I remember, Mr. Weasley," Verity said, ducking a spinning Catherine wheel in a vivid shade of violet, just what he had been going for. "It makes them multiply by ten. Should I call for a Healer?"

George followed her gaze to see Angelina still lying on the floor, her hands over her eyes.

"Angelina!" He dropped to the floor beside her. "Did it splash you?"

"I think so." Her voice was tight with pain. "It burns."

"Call a Healer," George said sharply, and Verity disappeared. "Let me see. Come on." He pulled her hands down, and she turned her head away from him, wincing. He breathed a sigh of relief. "It's not your eye, but it is close. Sit still." He stepped over the debris scattered everywhere and opened a cabinet.

"Here." He sat beside her again, conjured a handkerchief, and poured a yellowish substance onto it. "Essence of murtlap. It'll ease the sting."

She tensed and jerked away from him, so George placed his free hand against her cheek, dabbing at the corner of her eye with the other. She relaxed into his touch and her breathing eased.

"Better?"

"Uh-huh."

Her lashes fluttered open, and George found himself staring into warm eyes the same brown-black as coffee beans. They hadn't been this close in months. He could feel her hip pressed against his as they sat side-by-side, the warmth of her skin under his palm, the whisper of her breath against his jaw. He dropped his gaze from her eyes to her mouth. Her full lips parted, as if in invitation, and he looked into her eyes again, wanting to be sure.

"Right through here, sir," Verity said. "She got splashed by a potion."

Angelina's eyes shuttered, and George dropped his hand.


	8. Attention

Prompts: Imagination, innocence, intense/ "There's pain behind every 'it's okay.'" Weekly four times, one time prompt: Four times George made Angelina laugh, and one time he made her cry.

Summary: When George starts paying more attention to Angelina, she hopes his motives aren't innocent.

* * *

Angelina's imagination was running wild. George had been showering her with attention for weeks. Showing up after practice with her favorite takeaway, bringing her sweets from the shop across the street from his, asking her opinion about everything from display windows to articles in the _Prophet_ to how his mother was coping. She had been to three family dinners at the Burrow in two weeks, more than in the previous two months. It was all innocent; casual and fun and nothing more than two friends spending time together, but after more than a year of indifferent George, the change was intense.

He had apologized too: for taking advantage, for taking her for granted, for believing her when she said everything was okay. He was right; there had been pain behind every 'it's okay,' pain in having her presence rebuffed, pain in his self-absorption. Oh, she understood it; she sympathized. She knew it wasn't personal, that he was treating his family the same. But it still hurt.

This hurt too, in a different way, this hoping. Hoping that it wasn't innocent; hoping there was more to making her laugh than simple attention-seeking. She had spent an entire evening complaining about her captain last week, and George showed up after practice on Monday with a bag of sweets from his shop. Having not yet learned not to accept food from the—from George, her teammates accepted, and Angelina had laughed herself to tears at the sight of her brusque, burly captain as a bright yellow canary.

She really, really hoped it wasn't innocent.


	9. Gifts

A/N: In case you missed it, chapter 5 Burn was last week's update and this is this week's. It is the last new chapter; I'll post the rest in their new order in a couple days.

Prompts: Jealousy, joy, jerk/ "Two is better than one... plus, it's more fun!" Weekly four times, one time prompt: Four times George made Angelina laugh, and one time he made her cry.

Summary: George surprises Angelina with two gifts.

* * *

"I brought you something." George entered Angelina's flat without preamble.

"George! You can't just walk in here."

"You really need better wards on your flat. I could send Ron over."

"You can't just hand out your brother's Auror services without consulting him."

"He'd be happy to do it. Makes him feel important."

"He is important," Angelina scolded, standing up and walking around George, who had no visible box or bag or gift of any kind. "What is it?"

"What's what?"

"My gift, you jerk! Where are you hiding it?"

"Who says I brought you a gift?" He splayed his hands innocently.

"You did!" Angelina reached into her pocket for her wand, considering. Would he have put any anti-summoning jinxes on it?

"I said I brought you _something_. A gift implies something good, something joyful, something—"

She pulled her wand out. "Hand it over."

"All right, all right. Here." Reaching into an inside pocket, he pulled out a bright pink ball of fluff, the same exact color as his work robes.

Angelina squealed. "You did it!" George had been trying to breed a magenta pygmy puff for months.

"Of course I did. It just took some time, is all. That's the first one."

She looked up from the cooing pet in her palm. "Really?"

"And this is her sister." He pulled out a lavender one.

"Two?"

"Two is better than one, plus it's more fun. Watch." He set the puffskein down, then took the magenta one from Angelina and placed her in front of her sibling. Immediately, the two puffskeins began flipping and rolling.

Angelina laughed. "They're darling!"

"You like them?"

"Of course I do! They're the cutest things in the shop."

"Only when you're not there."

She laughed again. "You're still not allowed to bypass my wards."


	10. Flying Tandem

Prompts: Flying, forbidden (implied), fragile/ outdoors sex. Weekly four times, one time prompt: Four times George made Angelina laugh, and one time he made her cry.

Summary: George convinces Angelina to let him ride along. He isn't interested in flying.

* * *

George had waited for Angelina after her match ended, waited long enough that the press left and the stadium cleared, and talked her into flying tandem, something he'd been trying to get her to do all season.

"We shouldn't be doing this," she said, looking around as they walked across the grass. "Players are the only ones allowed to fly on the pitch."

"Then it's a good thing I planned on playing you." He winked at her.

Despite the cheesy play on words, she gave him a reluctant smile and let go of her broomstick, which floated in front of her. She threw one leg over it and slid forward, giving him room to mount behind her.

"No flying. You keep your hands off my broomstick."

"No problem," George said, demonstrating by holding her waist. He had other plans for his hands, anyway.

She gave him a suspicious look over her shoulder, then kicked off. Angelina was an aggressive flyer, and George braced his feet against the footrests to keep his balance. She cleared the stands and leveled off, shifting her weight, trying to compensate for his. He pushed towards the front of the broom, snugged his thighs around hers, and leaned forward until he was almost lying against her.

"Too much?" he shouted over the wind. Angelina was hardly fragile, but with his hands on her waist, the bulk of his frame rested on her back.

"No, that's better!" She turned the broom into a downward curve, testing their balance, then ascended again, circling the pitch.

Confident that she had control, George slipped both hands under the hem of her jumper and ignored the swat on his forearm; she could hit a lot harder than that. He let his hands span her waist, front and back, and slid them up over her ribs, stopping with his forefingers resting on the wire of her bra.

"George, you can't—"

He propped his chin on her shoulder. "Can't what?"

"I have to fly," she protested.

"I'm not stopping you." He cupped her breasts, squeezing them gently. "See? Hands off your broomstick, just like you said."

She gave a huff of laughter. "Not exactly—what I—meant."

He continued with the light massage, fingers pressing into the soft tissue, his thumbs stroking the outer curve, and leaned into the turn as she steered them around the goal posts. It was a smooth fabric under his fingers, silky, and if he were very lucky, this was one of her bras that hooked in front….

The broom jerked, then leveled out as his hands closed over her bare breasts. They were perfect, round and full, filling his palm with their warm weight as they spilled free.

"What are you doing?" He had been watching the shape of her bust change under her jumper as he moved his hands and just now noticed the ground was a lot closer than it had been.

"Landing," she said breathlessly.

George kissed the hollow behind her ear. "But I want to fly."

"I'm going—to get us—both—killed." Her back arched, her head pressing into his shoulder.

"Pull up and fly straight. You can do that with your eyes closed."

She jerked upright, his words a reminder that they were still inside the stadium, and with a sharp turn, they sailed between the gap in the stands over the entrance and out into open sky.

Angelina hooked her feet over his ankles and leaned forward into his hands, but he continued to tease, stroking her in ever-shrinking circles that never closed over the tip. Looking over her shoulder, he saw her hands tighten on the broom handle. She wouldn't ask; she never asked. He let his fingers brush over her nipples and was rewarded with her bum pressing back against him. She was flying with her eyes closed, well above tree height, still visible to anyone who might be below but not identifiable. George turned his face into her neck, kissing the fluttering pulse point and rolling one nipple between thumb and forefinger. He felt the vibration of her moan against his lips. He did it again, with both hands this time, and she squirmed between his legs.

"Turn around. C'mon, Angie, turn around. Back to the pitch."

George dropped one hand to grasp the handle and increase their speed as she brought them out of the turn.

"Hands off the broomstick, remember?"

He let go, tucking that hand back under her jumper. She was a heck of a lot warmer, anyway.

"You don't have to keep them off of me."

He had let his hands drift, not wanting to distract her too much as she guided them back into the stadium and approached her landing.

"I would like to live to see this through," he shouted, the wind louder as they cleared the goal posts and she tipped them into a dive. "And you can't come on a broomstick."

Angelina laughed, hard enough that she was still laughing when George tumbled her the last couple of feet onto the pitch.

"That's what you think."


	11. Princess

Prompts: Give, glass, glitter/ "Go ahead and tease me ... I don't mind it." Weekly four times, one time prompt: Four times George made Angelina laugh, and one time he made her cry.

Summary: George babysits his nieces and nephew and calls Angelina for reinforcements. She doesn't oblige.

* * *

Angelina walked into the sitting room at Shell Cottage and stopped dead. George had Floo-called her not thirty minutes ago, saying Ginny had gone into labor and would Angelina please come over _right the hell now_ as he was alone with Victoire, Dominique, Louis, and Molly. Angelina had wolfed down a sandwich, taken a quick shower, thrown on some old robes (because no clothing survived an encounter with multiple Weasley kids), and Apparated to the beach. In that time, the three little girls in front of her had done this.

"Go ahead and tease me," George said, straightening his pink glass crown with dignity. "I don't mind it."

He sat at the children's table in one of the kids' chairs (which he must have magically reinforced), legs spread wide to allow him to scoot close to the table and his knees in the vicinity of his ears. In addition to the pink glass crown, he wore a pink fur cape around his shoulders, which must have been held in place with a sticking charm as it was barely long enough to stretch across his back. Angelina looked from him to the three little girls covered in various shades of glitter, which also decorated the table and the floor around it in a five-foot radius, and chose the easy question.

"Where's Louis?"

"He's sleeping," Victoire informed her. "He's just a baby, but we're big girls. We don't need naps."

"No nap," two-year-old Molly said. George moaned.

"I see," Angelina said, feeling the shock wearing off and the amusement start to set in. "Where did he get the crown?"

"Molly gave it to him," Dominique said, carefully stepping in each puddle of glitter and admiring her footprint.

"Unca George pwincess," Molly said with the seriousness of the very young, and Angelina lost it, sinking to the floor with a helpless case of the giggles.


End file.
